Rackfic Collection
by PutMoneyInThyPurse
Summary: Longish one-shots based around 'Room with a Rack', the quintessential get-Kelly episode. Latest: How To Comfort A Shellshocked Partner Without Him Knowing You're Doing It .
1. Crucify

**AN:**** This chapter is probably no more than a few days after they reached the hospital. I don't think Kelly was the only one to suffer from nightmares.**_  
_

* * *

_The merciless sun beats down, blinding him as he looks up at the cross. The screaming and wailing around him reaches a fever pitch, but he only has eyes for the white body hanging, crucified._

_Was Jesus white?_

_Why do you ask that, Alexander?_

_In the books. Jesus is always a white man in the books, Mommy._

_His mother smiles, serene, as the Inquisitors run through the church. Can't you see them, he wants to scream at her, but his voice is choked back, catching in his throat. He opens his mouth to yell a warning, but no sound comes out._

_The fact is, son, no-one can say for certain sure what Jesus looked like. White folks like to draw him white. Black folks, well, some of them follow the white folks' lead, some draw him black, like Reverend Johnson's church. But the important thing isn't his color. It's in your heart._

_Red, red, that's his color. Scourged with a thousand lashes. I thirst. Why have you forsaken me? I didn't mean to. He tugs at his mother's hand, to save her from the Inquisitors. The white fingers slip from his grasp. _

_The cross. If he climbs up the cross, he can save him. The harsh wood is slippery with the white man's blood, but Alexander crawls up. He slips, hands instinctively clutching at the white man's chest, fingers digging into the wound in his side. Kelly cries out, and Scotty snatches his hand away, and slips, nearly falling. His fingers clutch out desperately, and catch hold of the bony feet, pull the flesh ripping past the nail that pierces—No—Kelly screams, and Scotty lets go, and falls down, down, down... _

He hits the ground with a thud and a harsh yell. The ground is not loose earth but smooth plastic, the metal poles by his head cold and sterile. He blinks once, twice, the strip of moonlight on the floor… Floor. Hospital. The poles are the legs of the cot, the plastic is the floor tile…

Kelly's screams are all too real.

Scotty flounders up out of the tangle of blankets, flinging them roughly aside and letting them fall where they will. Staggering drunkenly across the room, he lands on Kelly's bed, coming to rest with a thud, like falling off a cliff, like falling off a cross, the smell of iron and blood and sweat still in his nostrils, and his fingers curl around the bedstead, his breath coming hard and fast. "Wake up," he calls, feeling his voice grating in his throat. Kelly doesn't answer, and Scotty hollers, "Wake up!"

"I can't..." With a gasp, Kelly jackknifes up. Only his face immediately crumples at the pain of the movement and he falls back down, Scotty's hands flying away from the bedrail and catching him before he can bust his stitches.

"Kel, it's just a—" He means to lower Kelly gently to the bed, he really does, but his hands aren't too steady either and he can't let Kel land on his still-bleeding welts, only twisting him sideways in mid-air isn't the greatest idea bcause he ends up falling to the mattress with Kelly, fetching up lying half-alongside him, one arm awkwardly trapped underneath his partner, facing the red lines adorning his bandaged back.

Normally, Scotty would expect some quip about we gotta stop meeting like this and how Kelly's not that kind of a girl, but now there's only harsh panting. No wonder; he'd lay dollars to little green apples that his trapped arm is causing Kelly excruciating pain, jammed up like that against his strained spine and lacerated flesh. "Wanna give me…" Scotty swallows hard. His voice is unsteady, and Kelly's not so far gone that he won't notice. "…gimme a hand here, Herman?"

"With—the greatest of pleasure." Scotty hides a wince at Kelly's voice, small and tight with pain, still rough from his nightmare.

"On three, then." He has to stop to catch his own breath. "Nice and slow."

"I have never been known to rush the important things in—_Ah."_ Kel can't quite hold back a gasp as Scotty lifts him with one arm and slides his other arm out from under him, but Kelly Robinson's a trouper, and if he is trembling with pain and strain when Scotty very gently eases him back down, it's not something Scotty will ever admit to noticing.

"Havin' a—" Scotty was about to say "a bad night", make it into some kinda funny question, but his voice catches in his throat like it did before, _the dust and sunlight choking him. _Swallowing hard, he lays his free arm carefully across Kel's shaking body, just to prove to himself that the guy's still breathing.

Kelly sighs, a wisp of breath in the sterile air. His partner doesn't seem to expect Scotty to finish the sentence. Attaboy, Kel. That's what friends are for.

They lie there, talking too much of an effort and overrated to boot. _why have you forsaken me? _If this was a normal situation (will things ever be normal again, he wonders?) Scotty'd probably offer Kel a backrub. As it is, he's afraid to so much as touch the man because of his injuries. His hand has other ideas, though; it's stroking Kel's upper arm as gently as it knows how, pulling the sheet up over his bandaged torso, smoothing the fabric softly over his bare skin. The appendage appears to know what it's doing, so he lets it, allowing his own head to sink further into the pillow. Soft. Nice.

After a long pause, Scotty feels Kelly's tension gradually subside. Slowly, the corded muscles relax beneath his arm, the trembling quieting. "You 'right?" Kelly slurs. Man, his voice, low and dark, out of its usual register, is frightening. Scotty's hand reacts before his brain, smoothing over Kel's bandaged cheek, stroking his hair, as Kelly has done for Scotty when he's feeling hurt and vulnerable, time and time again. Always caught Scotty, always pulled him out of the fire, and Scotty has _forsaken_ failed to catch him this time. Wasn't there to break his fall.

"That bad, huh?"

"Hm?"

"You." Kelly's breath is coming faster, like he's tiring. "Failed. To answer. A simple…" He's flat-out panting now.

"Kelly. Will you pipe down and get back to sleep?"

"Nope… Gotta…"

_"What?_ Conference with the President? Interview at two? What do you _gotta_ at three o'clock in the morning?"

"Never asked ya…"

"Is this the time for existential…"

"Listen to me. Please, man." Into Scotty's sudden silence, Kelly breathes, "Never asked you… if they… if they hurt _you, _Jack. If they maybe… did somethin' to ya…"

Scotty can't help it. He begins to laugh.

"Oh, that's nice. You dismiss my concern…"

Heartened by Kelly's indignant tone, Scotty keeps laughing, but clams up in a hurry when he realizes that the shaking of his body is jarring Kelly's welts. "Aw, sorry, Kel, but you…" He snickers again. "You just worry 'bout yourself, 'kay? Nobody touched a hair on my head." He blinks,_ smelling iron and blood and sand. _"Wouldn't let me share none of it, man. You took it all, for the both of us."

"Glad to hear it," Kelly mutters. "You were out cold…"

And just like that, Kelly's crying, his face crumpling beneath Scotty's hand, dampness sliding over his knuckles. Stunned, helpless, he blinks as his fingers automatically caress Kel's cheek, wiping the tears away. "Aw, don't…" It's been wonderful pretending, just for a moment, that things were gonna be fine, but he should have known better than to think that Kelly – that anyone – could just shrug off something like this. "It'll be all right, man. Just… need time, is all."

"Sorry… shouldn't…" Kelly mutters.

Scotty nearly shakes him, but halts just in time, shocked at what he almost did. "You got noth—ah, just shut—Mgrph," he concludes, all smooth and suave, and then his body catches up with his independently-thinking hand and snuggles in to his partner, warm and close, tucking him tighter into his embrace without hurting him, and anyone who says that _that_ isn't an achievement with every inch of Kel's body cut and swollen can just go fly a kite. "Gonna look better in the morning. Just wait and see."

Kelly doesn't make an answering quip, doesn't say a word, just clenches his jaw so tight the muscle trembles under Scotty's hand, and all Scotty can do is murmur meaninglessly and wipe his tears away, and hold him. They have a long way to go. Scotty knows it, maybe he didn't realize how far, but still…

_The bleeding and broken figure drops off the cross. It's a long way down, but the fall is slow, and he's there to catch the white man before he hits the ground. The torture has been terrible, the blood drips to the ground like rain, but his arms are strong enough to cradle his beloved friend close, lift and carry him away to where he can tend to him, care for him, make him strong again.  
_

_All the time in the world, all the love in the world, all the kindness in the world. If that's what it'll take to make him whole, then that's what he'll give, and gladly. And more._

In their sleep, the two men smile.


	2. Side By Side

It's pretty flaky, this feeling.

Scotty hates dwelling on stuff, but sometimes the nights get pretty long waiting to head Kel's nightmares off at the pass, and the moonlight hits the floor just so, and… Well, anyway, sometimes stuff just creeps up on you.

And this ache, this thing wanting to bust out of his skin 24/7, is just flaky.

He aches for Kelly, every waking moment. Every time Kelly needs to shift position to relieve the pressure on his tortured joints, Kel can't suppress his groans, because the slightest movement reignites the flames in his skinned and shredded back. Scotty lunges to help him, and that's another hell in itself, holding onto white hands trembling with weakness and trying to find a place to grip him by that won't cause him pain which is impossible because every part of Kel's body hurts, and Scotty bends close and murmurs to the poor guy, making jokes, doing what he can to console him, when all he wants is to cry out in misery and frustration. Even when Kel's just had his local, which he has to have when they change his dressings, and the sharpest edge of his agony is blunted, Scotty still hates to see Kelly floundering in bed because his joints are too battered to let him move. He helps him move, of course, but he burns with the desire to help him,_ really help _him, to just reach out and take his pain away. The nurses have been on the end of a few blistering monologues with regard to pain meds already, and some of the lines of suffering in Kelly's face are less prominent as a result, his color a smidgen improved.

And Scotty doesn't understand it. He's never felt like this before, not even when Russ or his Mom were—hurt, or sick. True, he used to be the one to bear the brunt of… things, and he never let on to his brother or his mother – especially his mother – about most of it, but even so… He's taken care of a sick little brother many times, feeling serious and responsible. His Mom. Jo, too, before he moved out. But he's never felt quite like this, like every little gasp and moan from Kelly's throat is making his chest painful and tight, like Kelly's grimaces of pain are cutting off his air, like he's boiling with uncontrollable rage every time he sees Kelly's swollen joints and raw back, like —the completely illogical feeling sweeps through him— like if only it was him instead of Kel, it would be easier, like it would be easier to be the one hurting than feel like this.

He doesn't let on to Kelly, of course, but it's all he can do to put a brave face on it. Whenever Kelly looks at him, he has to work hard to find his usual grin. It's fortunate he's had a lifetime of practice, because sometimes he can't bear to smile when he wants to frown, can't bear to act casual when he feels like yelling… can't bear to be cheerful when all he wants is to run to his mother and bawl into her apron about how the bad men hurt his pal and he feels so awful, Mommy, so awful for him and please please please make it stop hurting for Kel, Mommy, please. He's known since he was a little kid that you can't really kiss owies away, but he'd give anything right now for them both to be five years old and for Mommy to take Kelly in her arms and kiss it all better.

Well, they're not five years old, and Mom's not here, so he'll have to do. And so he smiles, and makes funnies, and tries to give Kelly all he can. He'll give everything he has and more, and it's no sacrifice – it's for _him, _for Scotty. Because when Kelly's down, Scotty feels – like he's alone on a mountaintop, or stranded in the desert, or something.

He didn't used to feel like that before there was Kel; he was doing okay on his own. But then Kelly came into his life, and Kel always puts it on the line for him, won't let him face danger alone, pulls his hash out of the fire, helps him, guides him, to the point where Scotty's got used to it, darn it all, anyway, gotten used to having someone to lean on. Look up to, even, though Kel's the last cat in the world to believe he's worthy of anyone's admiration.

It's a big-brother thing, he knows, the instinct to shield the younger sibling, to shoulder the blows and make everything better for your little brother. And Kelly does that. For _him_. And that makes Scotty feel…Well, anyway, he wants to get Kel up, help him stand straight and tall the way he was before. He's gotten too used to having him in his corner, at his side.

And there's no way he's going to go back to walking alone again.


	3. I Shall Not Want

AN: The friend for whom I wrote this called the fellas "needy and desperate" in this. Very possible: I never promised you great literature.

AN2: Here's the note I wrote the friend for whom I originally wrote this.

_I've always loved the collective memory and cultural weight attached to religious texts, especially things like the psalms, the Biblical passages about Faith, Hope and Love, and so on… to me, they represent a lot of what's most exalted about human thought. Sooo, I was on eBay, and I found this needlepoint afghan with the 23rd Psalm on it, and when you're obsessed, EVERYTHING reminds you of Scotty and Kelly. I need a life!_

* * *

Kelly's dying. He can feel it, can feel his death creeping up on him in this horrible place, the most miserable place to die. His captors' voice s are harsh, and worse than the excruciating agony is the certain knowledge that there is no shred of human kindness in them, that his suffering means nothing to them. It's hard to describe the full horror of that, that he sees, from his preternaturally opened eyes, the death of compassion, the death of the human spirit, that they can see his pain and not want to alleviate it, that they can watch him scream, and know his agony, and care not, and laugh.

With a gasp, he wakes.

Faster than he can wonder where he is, there's a warm presence close beside him. He opens his eyes and everything's dark, but his eyes fasten on the white background of the afghan that's covering him: _The Lord is my Shepherd. I shall not want._ Huh. He hasn't been Kelly's shepherd for a while now, maybe as long as he can remember. Where, what…?

"…all right there, Hoby? Hmm? Sure y'are. Just had a bad dream, that's all."

Bad dream. He begins to piece it together as his head sinks back into the soft pillow: Mom's. Needlepoint afghan. The living room. TV? He was watching something on TV, last he remembers… But how…

Scotty's adjusting the cover around him now, still murmuring to him. "…gotta send a stern letter to the Sandman, man, first thing in the morning. Can't have him disturbing the peace like this, it just is not right…"

He turns his head to look at Scotty's face, knowing the sadness and care he'll see in the familiar features, but – maybe it's a trick of the night, maybe it's something in the flickering of the nightlight from the hallway, but there's so much affection in his partner's face, such deep compassion, that he closes his eyes and has to look away. But it's still there, just behind the darkness of his closed eyelids, the love in the gentle, goofy words, the tenderness in the light, casual touch.

"…'bout time for your pills. Saved me the trouble of waking you. You gonna take up your sword and slay any dragons that come swingin' by 'fore I get back?"

Kelly opens and closes his eyes, smiling genuinely, and opens his mouth to say something. No sound comes out.

The worst of it is, Scotty seems to accept this as an answer. "Keen-o." He rises, patting Kelly's afghan-draped chest gently. "I'm off to see the wizard. Your Reefer Madness is just a step away."

The moment Scotty leaves the room, Kelly's seized by a chill. He draws his knees up, knowing by now to be prepared for the searing pains that accompany the movement, and he bites down hard on the edge of the afghan so as not to cry out. There, mission accomplished.

Kelly's eyes rove over the afghan, desperate to take his mind off how much it hurts. The words have come into focus again on his drawn-up legs. _He leadeth me beside the still waters._ Musta taken Mom forever to embroider the words in, stitch by meticulous stitch. With love. Kelly's eyes burn.

_He restoreth my soul; He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name's sake._ Hoo, boy. He feels faintly guilty, like he should be doing something but isn't. Like he should believe, but doesn't. He doesn't remember the last time he walked in the path of righteousness, and as for restoring his soul… It'll take more than a miracle to do that, Kelly thinks bitterly, carefully rationing his exhalation so Scotty won't hear it and come running. Restore his soul, indeed. It was lost a long time ago. But why then… his eyes trace idly over the curlicues surrounding the stitched-in words… why does he feel so comforted, as though someone's been pourin' oil on the troubled waters of his stupid head?

"The wanderer has returned, bearing gifts." Scotty's suddenly right there beside him, kneeling by the couch, and Kelly's pride has long ago lost the battle with his honesty: he can't help the admission that he feels better when Scotty's near him. "Easy now, hmm?"

Kelly pushes the afghan aside, clenching his teeth and holding his breath. He can't quite help a little grunt, and fists his hands in Mom's careful work, crumpling _Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: For thou art with me; Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me._ Scotty's already there, strong hands, Gibraltar, lifting him, doing the work, letting him rest. He's the one who covered him up with the throw, Kelly's slow brain realizes. "I fell asleep in front of the…"

"Sure did." Scotty's lifting him bodily, knowing he's so stiff he can't move, and yet his hands avoid the still-sore patches on Kelly's back. Nobody like him. Don't deserve him, Kelly can't help thinking, and his eyes burn again, and then he ducks away, ashamed of his weakness. And then the ducking motion of his head shoots pain up his spinal cord, electricity consuming the nerves, and he won't cry out, but he can't move either, and he ends up still, trembling, mortified at how feeble he is.

Only Scotty's still holding him up, firm and gentle, still taking his weight, and as he lifts Kelly's arm and palms the pain pills into his hand, he's humming. It takes Kelly a second to place the tune, and when he does, he can't help a laugh. _You Would Cry Too If It Happened To You._

Scotty grins at him, full-bore and contagious, when he catches Kelly's eye, and there's something about the spark of life in Scotty's eyes and the quirk at the corner of his mouth that fans the flames of Kelly's own smile. He keeps smiling as Scotty takes him by the elbow and helps his stiff shoulder joint rotate up so Kelly can put the pills in his own mouth, and he's so grateful for the small dignity that he nearly tears up again, but Scotty's still humming that silly song, and Kelly's still smiling, desperately happy on a knife-edge of pain, as he swallows the water from the ceramic mug Scotty's now holding to his lips. The coolness feels good, and he drinks long and deep. His partner's strong grip is still holding his head up, and his gaze flickers away from Scotty's for a moment as Scotty adjusts his position. _Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies… My cup runneth over._ Kelly blinks, then his smile broadens. Cup, mug, it's the running over that counts, right?

Eventually, Scotty lowers him down to the cushions, adjusting them beneath him. Bless the guy, he hasn't suggested Kelly move to the bed; he knows the nightmares get worse when he's on a flat surface. Kelly's slept better on the couch since he got here, and if he suspects Scotty's sacking out somewhere near so as to be on hand when the nightmares come, he can't prove it, as his partner's shamelessly using Kelly's debilitated state against him and challenging him to provide evidence. And damned if Scotty's not still humming.

"Willya quit singing that stoopid song," Kelly grumbles without heat. The medication's starting to radiate warmth through his system as it relieves the pain, making him relaxed and boneless.

"Just wanted to make sure you remembered the words, Otis."

"Words, shmords." Kelly grins goofily up at his partner's smug, sardonic face. He keeps smiling like a sap as Scotty tucks the covers in around him, asking if he's warm enough, comfortable enough, if he needs anything. Answering by rote, Kelly espies the last lines of the needlepoint just as Scotty tucks the afghan securely around his bare feet.

_Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the House of the Lord forever._

Startled, Kelly looks up at Scotty. Goodness and mercy. Maybe not _all_ the days of his life, but…

"You okay, Dobbsie?" Scotty's voice has taken on an edge of concern. "You need anything?"

What has he done to deserve even this much?

It's not until Scotty's fingers touch the corners of his eyes with great tenderness that Kelly realizes he's crying. "Aw, man…" His partner doesn't know why Kelly's crying – hell, Kelly's not sure he knows, himself – but it doesn't matter, Scotty'll make it his mission to make it right again. And Scotty can't yell at him, not when he's sick, so… Yup, here it comes: pulled up a cushion, already sitting by his head, gonna sit right there and chase the nightmares away.

"M sorry… don't even know…"

The feeling of Scotty's gentle fingers carding through his hair makes Kelly's eyes wetter, more tears slipping out of the corners of his eyes; Scotty's blotting them away with a handkerchief, murmuring comfort, almost crooning to him now: "You got the right, man, you got every right… Hey, you wouldn't be normal if you didn't need to blow off a little steam…"

Kelly tries to speak, but can't. Dammit, if he wasn't so weak, he'd be better able to get a grip. And the worst of it is Kelly still doesn't know why he's crying, doesn't know if it's because he doesn't deserve Scotty's comfort or because he knows it can't last, or out of gratitude that he's had this much, or maybe just shell-shock from—from what happened at the Castillo. _I shall not want._ But he does, Kelly does, wants more than he deserves. Wants this, wants _them,_ to last forever, and knows it can never be.

* * *

Scotty watches, miserably, as Kelly cries himself to sleep. He'd do anything in the world to take away his pain, but he doesn't even know where to start. He's glad Kelly shot those buzzards that did that to him. Shooting was too good for them, too.

Another tear slips down the side of Kelly's face, and Scotty's heart twists; even in his sleep, Kel's crying. Unable to restrain himself, he wipes away the tears and smoothes Kelly's hair back, then bends to murmur in his ear. "C'mon, man," he coaxes. "C'mon." He starts talking softly to Kelly of anything and everything, past missions, funny moments, wishing he had something to read to him. In despair, he finally starts to read him the psalm on the afghan; most of it is obscured, but he knows it by heart, the blessing and the curse of eidetic recall. "Hey, man, how 'bout this? The Lord's my shepherd, I shall not want… you remember this from Sunday school, don't ya?"

He gets through most of it fine, reading the words steadily, hoping they'll provide some comfort, some consolation. But when he gets to the part about goodness and mercy, and dwelling in the house of the Lord forever, he sees it: the tight grimace, even in sleep, as though the words caused Kelly's soul pain.

And suddenly, he gets it, gets what Kelly was crying about.

"Aw, Fred C…" Kel's asleep, so Scotty feels no qualms about embarrassing Kelly – or himself – as he slides a little lower, resting his head next to Kelly's on the pillow, reaching up and draping an arm tenderly across his gently rising and falling chest. "Is that what you're worried about? I am not _leaving, _'case you _thought_ I was, and you should know me _better_ by now, ya three-cornered square." He shifts his head gently, careful not to jostle Kelly's painful shoulder joint. "I gotcha, Kel, y'know, your village is missing an idiot if you think I'm ever lettin' go." He pauses a beat, thinking. "And if I ever quit the job, you're comin' with me. Kicking and screaming if you have to. Though I hope you'll come quietly without forcing me to use my super-duper blackmail skills, you know I have powers that no man can resist, and…"

He rambles on for how long he doesn't know, the words soothing him as much as his partner. At least, he hopes they are – the tears have dried, and… He lifts his arm – the one that isn't mashed up against the couch – off Kelly, runs it over his own hair, and rubs at his face, hard. Shifting his head up a little, he looks at Kel – the tears have dried, and he seems to be resting easy now. Good. The man deserves a doggoned break.

In the dim light of the room, he just looks for a moment at the lines of Kel's face – the weariness, the pain, the traces of misery still all mark him, making him look older, and yet in sleep, he also looks younger. Unguarded. Open. He resists for a moment, then, giving in to an access of tenderness, Scotty kisses Kelly's cheekbone. "You gonna hush now like a good little boy?" His hand strokes Kelly's hair, saying what his words can't. "We will find a way to get through this. We will find a way to – to stay together. I promise you that."

Finally satisfied from his face that Kel's reassured and at peace, Scotty rises to stretch out in his own bed, get some shut-eye. As he stands, his eyes rake over the sleeping form one more time, Kelly's body covered with Mom's needlepoint, the one she did way back when. She's always loved that psalm.

_The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want._ Uh-huh.

He hopes the Lord will forgive him, Scotty thinks as he stumps off to bed: it's not that he don't _trust_ the Lord to provide for everyone and all, but he's not even gonna trust Him when it comes to watching Kel's back. From now on, Scotty's gonna make extra sure his partner is okay, that Kelly never has to cry like that again, to suffer like that again, to feel abandoned for even one second again. Same as he knows Kel does for him, every day of his life. Kel keeps him safe, and it's about time Scotty did the same.

And hey, he knows the Lord will understand.


	4. How To Comfort a Shellshocked Partner

It's too much to ask, Scotty supposes. You don't go through what Kelly went through in Spain and go back to being a hundred per cent, even ten months after the fact. Even though Scotty had hoped... Ah, well. It was unrealistic, that's all there is to it.

The vacation in Oregon worked wonders, allowing Kel to go back on active duty again, but there are scars. Inside. Tells, that Scotty's become practiced at reading. Kel's a trouper, always has been. But still.

For a start, there's the way Kelly won't ever sleep on his back, nights. At first Scotty thought it was because his back was still sore; but the torn skin and damaged muscle has been healing, slowly but surely, up to the point where now, Scotty can only find traces of the worst of the damage, and then not unless he's really looking for them. Department's got some fine plastic surgeons, he'll give them that. And yet, Kelly will try to lie on his back, then Scotty'll see his fingers clenching in the sheets, and his jaw tightening, and with the air of someone giving up the fight, he'll turn onto his side. Usually facing away from Scotty.

Who's he kidding – _always_ facing away from Scotty. Like he doesn't want anyone to see his 'weakness'. Scotty deals with _that _by closing his eyes and snoring softly. Because he knows that the minute his partner thinks he's asleep, he'll turn to face Scotty. A comfort-thing. Scotty sometimes wonders whether a shrink would insist he call Kelly on it, but then tosses the idea out without much ceremony. Shrinks have done enough damage to last a lifetime, thank you very much. If Kel needs to get what he needs without Scotty letting it slip that he knows that Kel needs it, heck, that's one of the _simpler_ convolutions of their lives as spies.

It's grown a lot more infrequent, but there's another tell that still gives Scotty a pang: sometimes, when Kelly's under a lot of strain, Scotty'll find him just sitting at the table in the room, or at the desk, couch, edge of the bed, whatever. His mind, though, that's a million miles away. The lines on his face deepen, the creases under his eyes are painfully pronounced, and the eyes themselves are glassy, turned inwards. If Scotty looked closely, he wagers, he could see the flames behind his eyes, the reflection of pitiless cruelty.

Only he doesn't. Took him a while to figure out how to deal with that one. Any overt overtures will have Kel clamping down on his feelings and spending the evening with a horrible fake smile and a core of pain inside so tangible Scotty's liable to choke on it.

So now? Scotty sings.

Not opera or anything. But he'll hum something, Marvin Gaye, good ol' Louis, the Four Tops, or whatever Motown or jazz happens to present itself for the day's menu in his skull. He sings, or scats, not soft, not loud, and just goes about his business, hanging loose, washing socks, ironing, reading (or pretending to – not that Kelly can tell, in his state) or filling out dumb reports that don't take up too much of his grey matter. It takes a good half-hour, but Kelly's body starts to unlock, the rigidity less pronounced, his eyes coming back from wherever he's been as his ears bypass his brain - thank you, ears - and tell him what his brain won't: that he's not back _there, _that he's among friends, that he's safe.

And then, when Kelly's back, he'll look around guiltily, like he's been doing something wrong (which makes Scotty wish he could confront him, smack him upside the head, which he _can't,_ which is frustrating, but it comes with the territory, so hey). This is when Scotty has to be very careful, pretend not to notice that Kel's even been gone. And then – then, Kelly smiles at him.

It's slow, and it's warm, and it says what Kelly would never say out loud: _Thank God I'm alive, and here, and safe. And that we're together. _The same smile, every time, and Scotty would compare it to the sun coming out or something, only that's no good because the sun coming out never melted through all of his insides like some kinda marshmallow. Scotty can't read the smile well enough to figure if it also says _Thank you, _whether Kelly can tell that Scotty's doing it on purpose. The good thing about all this? Even if Kel _has_ figured it out, he's so darn private that he wouldn't _dare_ mention that he knows about Scotty's ruse. Score one for the good guys – or at least the long-suffering trainer and his pig-headed spy partner.

Then there's the heavy artillery. When things get _really_ bad – a case that stirs stuff up, torture, something that reminds Kelly of… things – and Kelly spends more than three days without sleep, Scotty's got it covered. By the second sleepless night, he'll have already scoped out the local papers, pumped the receptionist, done whatever he has to in order to find out what's playing at the local movie theater. The third night, he'll act bored, and complain subtly to Kelly, then suggest they go take in some flick or other.

Kelly always agrees; he _likes_ the movies, he just gets this disconnect in his brain when he's this bollixed up, can't remember what makes him feel better. So they go to the movies, the two of them, and they get a bucket of popcorn, if they're stateside, or a little bag of popcorn, if they're in Europe, or glazed nuts in Latin America. It doesn't matter what, really, just a container of something warm in one's hand, smelling like butter and childhood and home. Scotty likes popcorn. And glazed nuts.

It doesn't take ten minutes for the tension to leave Kelly's frame. Scotty makes a show of stretching, and drapes his arm along the back of Kelly's seat. Another twenty minutes - Scotty could almost time it down to the second - and he feels the warm weight of Kelly's head leaning back against his arm, gradually, comfortably settling into the crook of his elbow. Another few moments, and his partner's breathing evens out into peaceful sleep.

And there Kelly stays, for as long as Scotty can keep him there. Stateside, it can be hours: he'll just watch the movie over and over, opening and closing his fingers to keep his arm from falling asleep. In Europe, they shoo the patrons out when the movie's done, so he's taken to picking out Bergman and experimental European directors, and anyone else whose movies last for three hours. Like this time: in a stroke of good fortune attributable only to the Patron Saint of Spies Everywhere, he's lucked into an obscure Bogota movie theater in some out-of-the-way dingy alley showing _Cleopatra._

So here they are, watching Liz Taylor flash her assets. Well, technically, Scotty's the only one still (sorta-kinda) watching: his partner's long since departed for the Land of Nod. More directors should make five-hour movies, Scotty smiles as Kelly drools slightly onto his shirt, his cheek smooshed into Scotty's sleeve.

He jostles Kel gently so his partner won't get a crick in the neck. Yeah, long movies, that's the ticket. Get the Spies' Teamster Local to recommend that directors make long movies for those recovering from shell-shock and stationed on distant outposts...

Scotty's head drifts down to rest on Kelly's as he, too, succumbs to the lure of Morpheus and gets some much-needed sleep.


	5. Spooning Soup

"Open wide, now. I would like to be able to say that I worked and slaved over a hot stove to bring you the deliciousness of this soup to the wonderfulness of yourself, but that would be telling a lie, and you know my mother would never forgive me if I were to tell you a lie. But you see, I worked hard serving it. Serving is a lot harder than it seems, you know, and you just better appreciate all that I'm doing for you and open up. Good little boys who eat their soup grow big and strong, and..."

Kelly knows he should be amused at the patter. But he's awkward as an overturned turtle, propped up on a dozen pillows, unable to lie on his back but too screwed in the joints to be comfortable lying on his side, and to make his humiliation complete, he feels the embarrassing sting of tears leaking out the corners of his eyes to tickle their path along his nose. He's scared to move - pain has made him a coward - and he hates this life, he hates what's happened, he hates himself.

Scotty's voice prattles on, and more in resignation than anything else, Kelly opens his mouth and lets his partner empty in a spoonful of soup. It's more effort than it seems worth to swallow, but he can't very well let it dribble out, so he reluctantly engages his throat muscles.

The soup's pleasantly hot, and it feels comforting going down - all of a piece with the soft handkerchief that's appeared out of nowhere and is gently, carefully blotting the stupid tears of weakness off his cheeks. The handkerchief disappears, and another spoonful of soup goes down, making him warm. Warm as the hand that rests gently on his cheek, warm as the deep voice murmuring soothing inanities, never leaving him alone for a second.

When he sobs and screams in the night, betraying his own self with weakness, when he cries like a child for something to ease the pain, the warmth in his partner's hands and voice is the only thing that keeps him from just putting an end to it all. Live to see another day, Scotty seems to be telling him, just one more day of soup and dumb comedy routines and faking smiles.

And damned if the silly, sweet patter doesn't make his smile just a little bit less fake than Scotty thinks it is.


	6. Another First Awakening

AN: _Another_ first-awakening after 'Rack'? I mean, how many more before people get sick of reading them?

OTOH, like a failed chocolate cake, this was made for a friend with a lot of love and the best wishes in the world.

* * *

Scotty jolts awake. His head's on the side of Kelly's bed. How long has he been out? He doesn't know how long it's been. He doesn't really know how long anything's been, and Scotty usually _knows. _

It might be the concussion. Heck, it probably _is_ the concussion. Not like him to be all bent out of shape over Kel taking a few knocks. After all, it's not like nothing bad's never happened to them before, is it?

_Lying to yourself is just as bad as lying to someone else, Alexander._

He shakes his head, breathing a shuddering sigh, and looking up for the thousandth time at Kelly, lying on his side, which probably isn't good for his ravaged joints, only it's the best position they could find for his flayed back, and his bandaged head propped up on a mountain of pillows, courtesy of the fractured skull. Yeah, this doesn't qualify as 'a few knocks', and Scotty doesn't know how to deal with it, doesn't know anything, really. How's he going to tell Mom about this? How on earth is he supposed to explain what happened? He wishes he could tell her, he wishes she were here to take care of Kel, he… Aw, _man._

The bed under Scotty's cheek shifts, starched cotton underlain with plasticky crinkle, and Scotty jerks up, so violently he sets his head to jack-hammering again. Not like he cares. Maybe, maybe this time Kel will wake. "Hey…?"

He holds still, doesn't say more, doesn't take his eyes off what little of Kelly he can see through the bandages. The lined, pale face scrunches up, goes through a thousand permutations, a thousand little lines that form and smooth again. Pain, confusion… Scotty suddenly realizes the bright fluorescents are on, and leaps up to shut them off. It sets his head to spinning so bad he has to kinda collapse into the chair by the bed, and it's sorta hard to see in all the darkness, but nothing could blind him to the flicker of Kel's eyelids, the tiny shift of his facial muscles as he struggles to wake.

"I'll give you a merit badge if you wake up, y'know," Scotty whispers. "Maybe a job, too. An apple pie. A la mode. With a cherry on top, and I won't even complain about a cherry on an apple pie…"

Kelly's eyes open, and for a moment there's nothing in them but terror. Then they latch on Scotty.

Kelly's eyes are wide, lost. Not the regular I'm-waking-up-in-a-hospital-and-I-don't-know-where-I-am lostness, nor even the I'm-really-scared-and-trying-not-to-show-it lostness that would be expected in the aftermath of the things they did to him. Heck, even if it were the I'm-miserable-help-me lostness of a lost child, Scotty thinks he could have dealt with even that. But his partner's wide, dead eyes are those of a lost soul. Like Scotty's looking through him. Like Kelly isn't even there.

Scotty fumbles for the call button with one hand, slow to find it, never taking his eyes from Kelly's face. He wants to say something, anything, to Kelly, nearly opens his mouth, but finds he can't. Words have always come easy to him, but now they stop in his throat. The room's filled with a roaring sound, like he and Kelly are on opposite sides of the Grand Canyon. If he yelled himself hoarse, his partner still wouldn't hear him.

Kelly's lips part. A thin, wheezing sound rattles low in his windpipe, and Scotty lunges for the water on the side-table before his mind can form an image of Kelly coughing and the pain _that_ would cause to every little bit of his ravaged body. "Hold it," he grunts, and lifts the straw to Kelly's lips.

Kel's mouth hangs slack, like he can't figure what to do with the straw. Scotty ponders putting out a hand and closing the man's lips around the straw manually, but thinks better of it – who knows what might be lurking in that head of his? The doctors said there might be mental consequences, and Scotty doesn't want Kel to think his partner's choking him, or something. That's if Kelly even recognizes Scotty, and isn't _that_ a cheerful thought?

"Here," Scotty says, dunking his fingers into the cup and fishing out an ice chip – good thing he told the nurses to fill it up. "Open wide, now…"

Carefully, he places the piece of ice between Kelly's lips, and he's rewarded as instinct takes over and Kelly hungrily sucks it in. His lost eyes close, just for a second, then snap open, like closing them was a mistake. And in them is terror.

"Hey, it's just…" Scotty reaches out.

"N-" An inarticulate sound scrapes in Kelly's raw throat. Kelly flinches away.

Scotty snatches his hand back, hurt and mad at himself for the feeling in the same instant. "Cool it. 's all right."

Kelly blinks, slow, like he shouldn't really be in the land of the living at all and is trying to figure out how to go back to wherever he came from. The moment stretches, but then Kelly's hand slips off its precarious perch. Unable to place a sling around his damaged vertebrae, the doctors settled for balancing his casted arm on Kelly's side, and now its weight is carrying it down, Kel's hand sliding off the side of the bed like it's a book or something, about to fall to the floor.

For some reason, Scotty freezes, perhaps instinctively assuming that Kelly can just stop it any time he wants to, and it only registers that Kelly has _no _control over his muscles as the appendage falls to the full length of Kelly's bandaged arm, then stops short with a jerk as Attached Arm wins out over Gravity. The small cry of pain that's wrenched from Kelly makes Scotty's heart jump into his throat, and jeez, he _needs _his heart, thank you very much. He—

He reaches out, slowly. "Not gonna hurt you," he says, keeping his voice slow and even. Kelly's teeth are clenched, his eyes squeezed shut, and Scotty's swamped by the illogical fear that if he doesn't do something to keep Kelly in the here and now, Kelly will leave, just run off to that place Scotty can see in his eyes where he thinks he should be instead. "Look, man," Scotty tries his best mock-whine, "you gotta… help me out, here."

The plaintive note in his voice catches Kelly's attention for a split-second, and he milks it for all it's worth. "I am a smidgen concussed, as you can see… While it is true that I have not scaled the heights of fractured-skullitude that you have achieved so seemingly effortlessly, I am in need of some assistance…" As he speaks, Scotty holds Kelly's gaze; it's still vacant, but at least Kelly's focusing on his face. Slowly, he cups a hand beneath Kelly's bound one, curling the other very gently beneath the bandaged arm, lifting like the arm's made of glass. Kelly breathes in sharply but makes no other sound, and Scotty has to break eye contact and look down at Kelly's arm, careful not to hurt the swollen elbow or the raw wrist or the roughened shoulder-joint. Bending low, he settles for laying the arm gently in Kelly's lap, or where his lap would be if he wasn't lying on his side. He adjusts the elbow several times like he was overseeing an experiment with nuclear fission, moves an extra pillow under the forearm to take the strain off the shoulder, then sits up, giving the un-bandaged part of the hand a final pat.

When he straightens up, Kelly's crying.

Scotty stops breathing, just for a moment. The man's eyes are averted, face set, tears slipping steadily over his cheekbones, catching the light before spilling down into the hollows of his sunken cheeks.

Scotty's heart twists painfully in his chest. If Kelly weren't a full-grown man, he could have hugged him or something; heck, if those buzzards hadn't broken practically every bone in Kelly's body, he might have put an arm round the man anyway. Anything to stop this silent weeping. But there isn't an inch of the man that's not bandaged, and his eyes are open but nobody's home. Oh, boy. Helpless, he reaches out and thumbs a couple of tears away before they can wet the gauze on Kelly's face; that's all the guy needs, sticky, wet bandages when the rest of him is feeling crummy anyway. Say, where's that nurse anyway? He reaches for the button. Oh heck, that's right, he never did push it. Concussed brain, not up to par, Alexander…

His other hand has reached out of its own volition and snagged a paper towel – one good thing about hospitals, they always have lots of 'em – and is gently pressing it against Kelly's cheek, blotting away the tears as they fall. "Are you aware," he murmurs lightly, "that the righteous cat who was the inventor of these wonderful disposable devices these was a certain Mr. Scott from Philadelphia?"

"Oh, Mr. Robinson, we're awake!" The door swings open, creaking loudly, and there's the loud click of a lightswitch. Fluorescent glare floods the room. Kelly's eyes flick open, wide and scared. It's impossible to miss the way he flinches, hard, under Scotty's hand. "The doctor _will _be pleased to hear it!"

_Gotta see about getting that nurse changed. _Scotty shifts the hand on Kelly's face to his collarbone, avoiding his poor ol' shoulder, while his other hand drops the buzzer to lay over Kelly's. It's freezing, and he can feel the fine tremors even through the layers of bandages; he has no doubt that if Kelly had control of his limbs, he'd have bolted up out of bed already. "It's all right, Hoby," he says, pitched low for only Kelly to hear. "Nothin' to be afraid of. Just take a gander 'round, hm? Nobody here but us chickens."

Kelly's eyes shutter to blank, and his face shifts from terrified to resigned, jaw visibly clenching as the brisk nurse takes his vitals. Scotty fidgets in his chair, but stays firmly put. He's forced to relinquish Kelly's hand to the blood pressure cuff, but the man's still shaking, so he slides his hand up to cup his hand very gently round one bound elbow. The trembling doesn't still; Scotty leans forward, folding the paper towel in his hand, to let his knuckles rest on Kelly's cheekbone. Skin still too cold, muscles still tremoring, but the tears have dried up, dried the moment the nurse entered the room – that's his Kel, always putting on the brave face. He can't help the little jolt of warmth at the knowledge that Kelly won't put on a mask for him. _Willya listen to yourself, Alexander? To hear you, anyone would think it was some kinda fun to listen to... _But he can't keep it up; he has no energy for self-delusion. _Things are the way they are, _a hippie girlfriend told him once.

Yup, they sure are. Scotty gives in to it, steadying Kelly with a hand on his arm when he winces with the pain of the blood pressure cuff being removed, reaching out and taking the cold hand so that Kel can have something to hold onto when the nurse shifts him. As she does, Kelly's fingers tighten feebly around his, and he looks away from Scotty, a small sound forced from him at the agony of even a slight shift in position. "Hey," Scotty forces a smile, "guess it hurts, huh? We need to start an annual hurting sweepstakes. We get whipped on so often…" But that's a stupid choice of words, and he falters.

The nurse has no shortage, though. "We're healing nicely. Blood pressure heading for normal levels, O2 sats all better."

As she brightly natters on, making signs in her clipboard, Kelly's trembling grows more pronounced, like he's nearing the end of his endurance – like he hadn't already _reached_ the end of his endurance and _passed_ it and been through a dozen hells _after_ that, and _still_ suffering—"You gonna give him something for pain?" Scotty says sharply.

"He isn't due for another hour…" The nurse catches Scotty's eyes, and takes a step back. Her pen falters over her clipboard. "But I'll see what I can do."

Scotty's voice is flat, but he knows she hears the undertone. "You do that."

"I'll be back in a minute." She edges out the door.

Kelly exhales the minute she's out the door, a huge gust of breath like a deflating balloon. It's like he's been holding his breath from the moment they weren't alone. The shakes start again, whether of relief or anguish Scotty can't tell, and he wishes he could just smack Kelly in the mouth and tell him to knock it off—_yeah, and why not get the men who tortured him in here for an encore, Alexander? _Sometimes he's _shocked _at himself. But it's so darned _miserable _to watch Kel so wretched, and… Heck, at least his hands have more sense than his brain: the knuckles of his right hand have found their way into the sunken hollow beneath Kelly's cheekbone, rubbing gently. He probably wouldn't have even noticed it if Kelly hadn't been half-unconsciously leaning into his hand. _Probably feels nice to touch someone who doesn't want to freaking torture him or else poke him with needles, _Scotty thinks ruefully, reaching out to cover the cold, white hand once more with his own.

Of course, it's at this minute that the door swings open again, revealing a preternaturally cheery nurse brandishing a positively gargantuan syringe. Kelly tenses again, but this time Scotty's prepared, tightening his clasp on Kelly's hand, and he's a tad reassured when Kelly's trembling fingers wrap weakly – _too weak, Kel, far too weak – _around his own. Scotty presses his knuckles a little more firmly into Kelly's chilled cheek, lending warmth and, he hopes, a little strength, as the nurse empties the medicine into his IV port. She adjusts, speaks platitudes, bustles about, and Scotty exhales along with Kelly as soon as she steps away.

The stuff seems to take effect almost instantly – he has to wonder if she didn't slip Kelly a sedative in there as well. The furrows in the man's face lose some of their depth, and Scotty feels it as the fine tremors in his hand ease, start to calm. "Thank you," Scotty says sincerely to the woman, and blinks to see her face soften.

"You're welcome," she says. "Now, you try and get some rest, too." She turns the light off as she leaves.

He's not so bollixed up that he can't feel Kelly's eyes on him, even unadjusted to the dark as his eyes still are. Beneath Scotty's hand, Kelly's fingers jerk spastically, and a sound scrapes in his shredded throat. "Y'know, you could just try to get some rest," Scotty mutters as he leans close to spare the guy having to shout. "What do you want _now?"_

Kelly's voice is barely a sigh – ridiculous that he can hear worry in it. "You…"

Scotty stares. "Do _not _tell me that you are worried about _my_ scrambled brains when _your_ head was about a quarter of a step from splitting open and spilling what little grey matter you have out onto these nice white sheets, here."

The labored breath hitches. Scotty _hopes _it's a laugh. He sure as heck – oh, _heck, _Kel's breath is hitching again and again – he sure as heck can't stand to see Kelly unhappy on top of all the pain and torture. Not that the cat doesn't have the right, it's just – call him selfish, but Scotty _hates _to sit there and watch Kelly suffer.

And now he's crying. Now what?

"I'm just fine," Scotty ventures. "Peachy-keen. Now will you quit makin' like an old lady and get some…"

"You don't… gotta…"

"I don't gotta_ what?"_

"Cracked y' on th' noggin too." Kelly pants, exhausted by the effort it takes to say the few words. Scotty fishes in the cup for another ice chip – they're almost all melted, but he finds one and shoves it in Kelly's mouth. He has a hunch Kelly would have resisted, which gives him some clue as to where the flake's head is heading. "Go somewhere else," Kelly says. "Don't have to stay here. I'm…" in the dark, Scotty can just catch the edge of a wry half-smile, "indisposed."

"You should be," Scotty says, hard. "You almost died."

"Shoulda."

Pain spikes through Scotty's head – he's probably just busted a blood vessel in the effort not to _deck _the idiot for that crack – and he bows his head to the plastic mattress.

He flinches at the feel of a touch on his head, then realizes it's Kelly's hand on his hair. "Sorry," Kelly says. "Sorry. I take it back. I'm just…" That funny hitch again. "Not having a good day."

Scotty gives a strangled laugh. Whaddaya know, the hitch is contagious. "You and me both, Hoby. You and me both."

Kelly's feeling round Scotty's head. It takes Scotty a moment to realize he's feeling at the bandage, trying to assess the damage. "Got you good," Kelly says.

"Got you better," Scotty retorts. Kelly's voice is still dull and pained, but at least he's talking, and right now, Scotty'll take what he can get. He raises his head off the mattress, just so's Kelly can stop worrying at that darn bandage. "'Go someplace,' the man says. Where on earth should I go? The cover of _Tailor and Cutter, _perhaps. I did hear that fractured skulls are the 'in' thing this year…"

"Yeah, lookit you—all dressed up and no place to—" But Kelly's breath hitches again, and this time the bed shakes with his misery. Scotty can feel Kel's hand curl into a fist.

_Can't be no picnic getting—all that—done to him. Psychological effects – the doctors said there'd be some. So he wants to cry. So what? Not like no man ever cried before or nothing._

Kelly's silent sobs are growing weaker with the ebbing of his strength, and Scotty can barely find the juice to move, himself. He notices his head's drifted down to rest on the mattress again. "We both need a vacation somewhere where they serve alcohol in glasses instead of syringes," he mutters. Not waiting for a response, he reaches up carefully, finding Kelly's face in the dim light. As he suspected, it's damp again. He doesn't bother with the paper towel this time, though, just palms Kelly's cheek gently, thumbing the tears away. "Gonna fix this, Hoby," he murmurs. "We're gonna fix it, you wait and see."

The muscle in Kelly's jaw jumps under Scotty's hand. "Pretty confident," Kelly grates aggressively, and his tone is an approximation of that low and bitter rasp he gets when he's really saying _How can you be sure?_ But his voice is so raw that Scotty can't get a good righteous rage going.

"I sure am." Scotty tries for cheery, but he can't quite hide how bad it makes him feel to hear Kelly so weakened. "Why, confidence is my middle name."

"Hmm." Kelly's hand fumbles a moment, finds Scotty's shoulder – Scotty sure hopes he's not hurting himself with the motion – and squeezes comfortingly. "Hope you notified the Department."

"Let 'em guess." Scotty's smile makes the plastic of the mattress go _crrk. _"Keep 'em on their toes."

Scotty's hand feels it when Kelly's mouth curves upwards in an answering smile.

Scotty yawns, loud and deliberate. "Yeah," he says through the yawn. "You bet."

Kelly's hand brushes over Scotty's temple, gently. Between one moment and the next, his breathing has evened out, and he's off in dreamland.

Scotty adjusts his head on the mattress. He can catch some Z's right here, he figures, at least for a while: his head hurts less when he's upright, plus… well, it's kinda reassuring to be here with Kel as he sleeps. Kelly's hand shifts, unconsciously patting Scotty's shoulder, and Scotty can't help a smile. Figures that the one thing that would keep Kelly awake and feisty for so long would be his desire to make sure he, Scotty, is all right. And isn't that just Kelly all over?

Well, time enough for thinking later. Now, rest. He gets himself comfortable, one hand still brushing Kelly's, one of the few unbandaged places on the man – _lord, they really did a number on him, and you slept through it, Agent Scott. _He beats back a wave of regret. Give your all for your country, that's what they tell them, but it always seems to be Kel who pays the price, in blood and bone – talk about your pound of flesh. One day he'll get knocked down and not be able to get back up…

Scotty quickly quells the maudlin train of thought. _Not this time. _His hand curls gently about Kelly's, and he holds on, drawing reassurance from the touch, here in the dark where no-one can see to call it a weakness. "Not this time, Kel," he whispers. "Gonna fix it. You and me. That's a promise, man."

Kelly murmurs in his sleep and pats Scotty's hand, and Scotty takes it as his cue to fall into sleep like a stone.


End file.
